Like Rats in a Cage
by Toaster-Omlette
Summary: John Egbert wakes up in a cramped white cell and is promptly informed that he is part of a group undergoing tests in an investigation of their supposedly higher mental capabilities. Now he must wander about in a maze with no information and no protection against whatever might await him, in the hopes that he will somehow be able to not only complete the tests, but get out alive.
1. Chapter 1

__You try staying up until four in the morning. See what it does for your fanfiction writing skills.

_..._

_Subject No.314_

_Name: Jonathan [information redacted]_

_Age: 16 years_

_Height: 5' 6''_

_Weight: 147 lbs_

_Gen. Information: Subject lived with father in [information reacted], located near the location of [information redacted], until time of enrollment. Name and location of mother unknown, although it is believed that subject is [information redacted] and therefore does not possess one. Subject shows enhanced information processing skills and increased adrenaline output, particularly when exposed to [information redacted] and similar stimuli. Signs of [information redacted] at minimum, although there appears to be a potential for [information redacted] if the subject is correctly situated. Mental health at normal. No abnormalities apparent at time of enrollment._

_..._

When John woke up, everything was white, and for a moment he was unsure of whether he was actually awake. Then the rest of his senses kicked in and he felt the coolness of the blank surface pressing against his cheek and the slow prickling of his retinas as an unrelenting glare wormed its way past his slitted eyelids. As the seconds progressed he became increasingly aware of a dull throbbing in his right shoulder, an almost-but-not quite pain like that of an old bruise, but when he reached up to feel the spot his fingers found not mottled skin but a small bump that twinged if he applies even the slightest pressure. He wondered briefly if it might be some sort of pimple, but the shape was too geometric to be a product of his own body. Some sort of implant, then, though he was at a loss to say what its purpose might be or how it got to where it was.

He sat up stiffly and attempted to stretch his arms out above his head, but stopped short when his hands made contact with a ceiling barely half a foot above him. A quick glance around revealed that the remainder of the walls were in equally close proximity, so that he felt that he was some sort of jack-in-the-box crammed rudely into its wooden container, waiting to pop out of the door whenever the spring was wound. Of course, there was no door that he could see, and when he pushed against it the ceiling remained resolutely in place. In fact, there was not much of anything save for a small white grille in the wall through which emanated a soft breeze, which he chose to label as his oxygen supply for lack of anything better. He didn't see what else it could be, for the box appeared to be airtight, and he could hardly imagine what sort of heartless person would lock up a sixteen-year-old boy in such a small space without providing a means of survival.

Providing he didn't starve first.

He brushed the thought aside and decided to instead count his blessings that he wasn't claustrophobic, a fear no doubt chased away by a childhood spent crawling into kitchen cabinets and lurking beneath the dimpled canopy of a blanket fort. He wished he had a blanket now, for while the room was not cold it certainly wasn't warm, and he was still clad in the khakis and thin white shirt he had put on that morning - if it was even the same day. He had no way of knowing how much time had passed between now and whenever he had been snatched off to who-knows-where. They had confiscated his watch, though judging by the state of his fingernails and the faint promise of stubble sprouting out from his chin, it couldn't have been more than a day or so. Certainly long enough for him to have been suitably manhandled, for his knees and elbows were scrape and scuffed, though he did not appear to show any other signs of having gotten into a fight. His shirt smelled of starch and cleaning detergent and he guessed that he must have been cleaned up, though he couldn't see why anyone would bother going to the trouble of doing so.

"What the heck is going on?" he muttered, stretching his legs out to their fullest extent - which wasn't very far - in an attempt to rid himself of the feeling of pins and needles that was growing in his calf, and knocked his feet against the far wall. It reverberated with a plastic clatter, and John grinned. He kicked again with twice as much force, and as the plastic rattled again he thought he saw it dimple slightly in the center. Something beeped faintly from some indistinguishable corner of his cell, and his grin widened. Progress. He pulled his legs up to his chest, steeling himself for a third kick that he was confident would break through the barrier - if that was what it was - when the white light emanating from the walls of his cell suddenly flashed a bright red and a crackle of intercom static echoed out from the grille in the wall.

"Do not attempt to cause damage to the cell," a tinny-sounding voice uttered, sounding entirely miffed. The red warning lights slowly faded to pink and then back to their original bland shade.

"Why not?" John retorted, his legs still poised for action.

"Any and all damage caused to your containment cell will result in penalties during your testing," the voice said.

"What's _that _supposed to mean?"

The intercom crackled again, and this time it was a more human-sounding voice that spoke, though it contained no more warmth or amiability than the first. "You damage the cell, we damage you. So please, settle down. We'd hate to lose a test subject before we've even begun." Before John could object the intercom cut off and he was left alone again, if one could call unfriendly voices emanating from an intercom company. He let out a long sigh and lowered his legs, though not before giving the wall opposite him the smallest of taps with the toe of his trainers. The walls failed to flash red and the intercom remained silent and he allowed his smile to return, delighting in this little victory. Such a rebel, he was. Next thing you know he would be riding his bicycle on the wrong side of the road and refusing to eat his vegetables.

This brief thought was quickly overrun by curiosity. The voices had mentioned testing, but he was certain that if he had signed up for something like this he would have remembered. Being cooped up in a plastic box for an unknown period of time wasn't exactly the sort of thing people put into the small print, unless it was and he had been going about these things wrong his entire life. Regardless, his situation could hardly qualify as what one might refer to as normal. He felt like a lab rat. And maybe, he decided after a brief moment's consideration, that's what he was.

Needless to say, the thought did nothing to improve his deposition, which was beginning to slip from cheerfully ignorant to not-so-cheerfully worried.

John wrinkled his face into a look of consternation and decided that perhaps the problem here was communication. He pressed his cheek up against the grille, trying to ignore how silly he must look, and whispered, "Anybody there?" There was no reply. "Look, I'm pretty sure you can hear me. I mean, if you can tell when I'm kicking the walls then you've got to be able to pick up sound from your end, right?"

The silence was deafening.

"Come on, I just want to know what's going on!"

He slumped back into his original position and started tapping the wall again, filling his cell with the rattle of plastic and sending small vibrations through his back that ticked the surface of his skin. Eventually the intercom started up again with its already-familiar burst of static.

"Stop," said the tinny voice.

"No," John snapped, feeling more rebellious than he had in years. It was a wonder he hadn't done it more often. "Not until you tell me what's going on, where I am, and why I'm here. Wherever 'here' is. How'd I even _get _here? Did you kidnap me or something? Who the heck are you people and how come you sound so much like a robot?"

There was another wave of static that sounded like a sigh. "You are test subject No. 314 and are currently located in the containment cell of the same number, which is the property of [information redacted] Enterprises. Any and all damage caused to the cell will be noted on your record. All other information is confidential or will be given to you at an appropriate time in the near future."

"How near is near?" John asked.

"Not near enough," the voice snapped, and John thought it sounded awfully pleased with itself, as though the witty comeback was the highlight of its existence. "Now do shut up. There are people busy trying to accomplish things for the betterment of mankind and we have no time for your prattle." With that, the feed cut out, leaving John in silence again. He sneezed and muttered something about not wanting to deal with shitty robot voices anymore, especially if they had no personality and were going to be so damn uncooperative. He'd never appreciated how easy it was to obtain information about the world until he suddenly lacked the ability to do so. He decided to blame the voice for that as well, and decided that it couldn't possibly be a robot. Robots didn't sass you, especially not while using words like "prattle." Nor did they have an understanding of sarcasm, if science fiction was anything to be believed. The entire situation was a load of horseshit, and to top it off his prankster's gambit was lower than it had been in ages. This was most likely due to the fact that there was nobody around to prank. You couldn't prank voices, after all, especially when they appeared to have control over your environment, and if you were going to try and rank yourself you may as well go and weep softly in a corner somewhere. His pranking wouldn't have been appreciated anyways, going by the sound of things.

"Dumb butts," he muttered, then let out a squeak as the walls around him began to shift and the light in the cell slowly dimmed to a dull grey. "I'm sorry!" he yelped. "I didn't mean it! Turn the lights back on!" Much to his chagrin, the lights did the exact opposite and blinked out completely, leaving him in utter darkness with a growing feeling of dread in his stomach. Except that it wasn't dread, he realised as the rumbling intensified, but a feeling very similar to that which occurred whenever he rode to the bottom floor of a hotel in the elevator. He was going down.

He wondered where he could possibly be headed, and hoped that it would at least have some room to move around in. His back was beginning to cramp up in a highly uncomfortable manner and he couldn't feel his left foot for all the tingling. On the other hand, he might be headed somewhere worse, a punishment for his kicking and name-calling, though he hadn't expected the voice to take its threats seriously. There was, of course, the fact that it had stated that all penalties would take place _during _testing, something which he was quite certain had yet to begin.

All of a sudden the rumbling stopped and the feeling in John's gut faded away. He was left to sit in the dark for several moments before the front wall of his cell slid seamlessly upwards into some slit in the ceiling - he had been right about there being something behind it, then, though the only thing he could see through the opening was yet more light, even brighter than before. He covered his face with his hands and peeked out through his fingers until his eyes adjusted and he could make out what appeared to be a room in front of him with a long hallway leading out of it. He could not see how long the hall continued for, and then supposed that it didn't matter much at the moment.

"Test subject No. 314, please exit the containment cell," recited a familiar voice, though now it emanated from the room beyond rather than from the intercom in the wall. The acoustics of the room made it sound even less human than before, and John began to wonder if he had been wrong about the robot thing after all. He hesitated for a moment before deciding that whatever awaited him out there couldn't possibly be worse than what would befall him if he remained where he was, and crawled out on all fours into an open space that filled him with relief. The ceiling stretched up so high that he began to doubt if there was a ceiling at all, though of course there had to be because there was no other place that the light could be coming from. There was a soft whoosh of air behind him and he turned to see that the door to his cell had slid shut just as seamlessly as it had opened. Had he not known better, he would have said that the wall was devoid of any doors.

"Get up," the voice ordered. John did so, groaning in relief as he stretched out his aching muscles and felt the vertebrae of his back pop. He shook his foot until the pins and needles faded away and he could properly feel his toes rubbing against his socks. "Now, proceed through the door to your right." John glanced in the indicated direction and saw yet another door slide up into the ceiling, through which there lay another white room with patches of color flashing against the wall. He shuffled towards it and saw that the patches of color were actually projections of pictures pulled up on the wall, though he could see no source for the images.

"What is all this?" he asked, gesturing at the pictures, which flashed sporadically between a large blue diagram of a brain and slides showing what appeared to be weapons. Occasionally a photograph would be drawn up, depicting a number of strange horned creatures with wicked grins, but the image would be replaced too quickly for him to make out any distinguishing features.

"Your briefing. Do have a seat." Seeing no chair, John sprawled himself out on his stomach, propping his chin up on his hands and staring intently at the wall.

"Now pay close attention, No. 314, because this information will only be given to you once." A portrait that John recognised as his passport photo was pulled up on the wall and then minimised to make way for a scan of what John assumed could only be his brain. It had been lit up in bright blue, with various portions of it colored in a slightly darker shade that were each highlighted as the voice droned on with what might have been the most mind-numbing narration John had ever heard. The voice could have given his math teacher a run for her money, and he might have found himself nodding off if not for the fact that he found his interest piqued. "The reason for your testing is in part due to the unique construction of your frontal lobe. In case you somehow ended up sleeping through this lesson in your science class, which I would not be that surprised at, this is the portion of your brain responsible for problem-solving and reasoning skills, among other things. Your parietal lobe also has an interesting construction, which suggests you might react to certain stimuli in a manner which is different from that of the average human being. And we are particularly interested in what is happening _here_, in your neocortex." A large portion of John's brain lit up and he wondered why they didn't just highlight all of it and call it a day.

"Is any of this getting through to you?" the voice asked. John shrugged.

"So I have an interesting brain," he said, peeling his hands from his chin and pulling himself upright. "So what?" A pause. "How did you guys get these scans, anyways?"

"_So _we have devised a test. You will remain in this facility for an indefinite amount of time and proceed through a series of challenges designed to test your higher mental functions and reaction to certain situations. You are, of course, not the only participant."

John noticed that the voice had neglected to answer his second question, but decided not to push it. "Who are the others?"

"They are only numbers. All quite meaningless, and we cannot provide you with any information regarding their appearance or personality at this time. All part of the testing process, you understand," said the voice. Another shrug. While the lack of information was beginning to grow irritating, it was nice to know he wouldn't be alone. The thought of human company brought another thought drifting to the surface of his mind.

"What about those horned creatures? The ones on the screen, right before you pulled up my brain," he asked.

"Nothing important. It has nothing to do with your own testing experience," the voice replied blandly. John thought he detected a slight pause, but now he was probably just being paranoid. "If you have no more questions, please exit the room so that we may begin the testing." John had a thousand questions he would have liked to ask, but he had the feeling they would only serve to change the voice's tone from pretentious to irritated, not that it didn't sound irritated already. They were the sort of questions that fell into the category of "sticking your nose where it doesn't belong." He stood and walked out of the door, feeling very much the spaceman as it slid shut behind him, though given the circumstances he could not revel in the feeling as much as he would have liked.

"Now of course, due to your little mishap in the containment cell, we have taken the liberty of adding some slight difficulties to your testing experience," the voice added. "Nothing too drastic, you understand, just enough to remind you that this is a serious environment where fooling around will not be tolerated."

"Said the invisible robot voice to the sixteen-year-old boy," John shot back.

"I'm not a robot," was the only reply. "Happy testing."

Then the voice cut out for what John felt would be the last time in a long while, and he was left to ponder his situation all alone.

He spent the first several minutes of his so-called "testing" investigating each and every corner of the room, checking for cameras or hidden panels like the two he had already encountered, then realised that if all the doors were as well hidden, he would be here all day. Providing that it even _was _day right now, but he didn't feel particularly hungry or tired and guessed it must be sometime in the early afternoon, which was what it always felt like whenever he was in a place where he lacked sufficient contact with the outside world. At this, he was suddenly reminded that he lacked food and bedding, and wished that he had thought to ask the voice that was not a robot about these necessities. He tried shouting, but the only reply was that of his own voice bouncing back at him from the polished walls. He sighed, and, satisfied that there was nothing here for him, turned and started walking down the hallway.

It was not as long as he had anticipated, though the monotone color scheme gave it an illusion of depth that was furthered by the lack of shadows. It was almost eerie, and John wondered if he could find himself going mad from the sheer emptiness of the place. At length he reached a fork in the road, where the hallway took a sudden right turn and branched off into two separate pathways, one heading right and the other left.

"A _maze_? Come _on_," John moaned. He really _was _just like a lab rat. The only thing that could make the metaphor any more complete was if there were little pieces of cheese lying around on the ground somewhere. After a moment's consideration he chose the right-hand corridor and hurried down it, following it around several twists and turns until it branched out again. This time, however, the paths were differentiated by more than just direction. The left-handed one pulsed a bright shade of red, the same red the walls of his cell had flashed after his little kicking escapade; the right-handed path was a blue that mimicked the color of his brain scan; the one that led straight ahead was violet. The ceilings and floors of all three remained the blistering white that the makers of the facility seemed so fond of, though the brightness did nothing to take away from the intensity of the colors. He turned down the blue pathway, deciding that he didn't trust the red one and that the violet would grow tiring after a while. The hallway of his choosing seemed to pulse more brightly after he had stepped foot into it, and when he looked back over his shoulder he could see no sign of the other two colors.

"Stupid gimmicks," he muttered, and continued onwards, expecting to come across other colored hallways but finding only continuations of the blue path, which he followed until he began to wonder if he was being tricked. Maybe they _wanted _him to follow the blue path, so that the could control where he went, perhaps lead him to one of the "difficulties" he had been promised at the beginning. But on the other hand, his subconscious muttered, perhaps this _was _the path he was meant to follow and they only _wanted _him to think that it was the wrong one. The whole situation was completely ludicrous, it muttered. This, at least, was something he could acknowledge. The voice had dutifully informed him that there would be tests, but insofar he had found none save for the colored pathways, and if that was his test then it was a disappointing one at that. He had expected puzzles, even obstacle courses, but here he was doing nothing but walking. Completely random. Unless the goal was to get out of the maze - which was the goal of _all _mazes, wasn't it? John was sure it was, and tried to remember what his father had told him about getting out of mazes if he ever got lost. Keep one hand on the wall and follow it until you reached the exit, that was it. It was worth a shot.

He placed a hand on the wall and started walking, intending to follow it regardless of the color of the path. If his father had been right - and he usually was - he would eventually make it out, and then he could be finished with this entire mess.


	2. Chapter 2

Note to returning readers: I've added a bit to the first chapter, so you might want to go back and have a quick look at that. It's nothing big, just an information table like the one right below.

_..._

_Subject No. 612_

_Name: Rose [information redacted]_

_Age: 18 years_

_Height: 5' 5''_

_Weight: 135 lbs_

_Gen. Information: Subject recently left family home to attend university at [information redacted]. Subject shows enhanced information processing skills, but is more intellectually advanced than subjects [information redacted]. Levels of adrenaline output also show potential for growth and tests should be adjusted accordingly. Mental health currently at normal, but subject suffers from [information redacted]. Medium to high risk for development of abnormalities. [information redacted] has warned against the use of [information redacted] in subject's testing. If issues arise, follow the procedures given for controlling [information redacted]._

_..._

Rose Lalonde was not prone to panicking, but she was also accustomed to knowing where she was when she woke up. To be sure, she had experienced that brief flash of panic that so often accompanies the end of a doze, when the world suddenly looms bright and clamoring over the haze of sleep, but what had come after was always comfort, the feel of a blanket wrapped around her waist and the press of pages against her cheek from when she had fallen asleep while reading. Here there was no comfort, only stark whiteness and light that could not chase her nightmares away no matter how hard it tried. It was a cold light, so different from that of the reading lamp she kept by the futon in her dorm at the university, and it left her with a sense of nakedness that made her want to curl up in some corner and pretend that nothing else existed. The room was enclosed on all sides and completely devoid of any sort of visible camera, and yet she felt more exposed than she had in ages.

This was, she reasoned, to be expected, seeing as her idea of exposure was going outside to stand on the balcony and watch the wind billow through the tops of the forest while the pines creaked and groaned as though they might come crashing down at any moment. At least, it had been, when she had still lived with her mother. At the university, exposure was allowing herself to sit in the front row of the lecture hall while all the other students crowded to the back, not wishing to meet the stolid glare of their professor. On the other hand, she was not only exposed, but lying on her back in a place she had never seen before in her life, be it in a dream or otherwise. The room was fairly small in terms of area, smaller even than her dorm, but the height of the ceiling made it seem larger than it actually was. It reminded her of the looming arches so often seen on the inside of churches, except here it was whitewash and industrial lighting rather than cold, carved stone, and the light that came from seemingly everywhere made it difficult to give anything a sense of definition. Calculating distance was irritating at best.

Rose sat up with a rustle of fabric and gentle shuffle of paper, her shoulder aching for reasons she could not discern. The first noise she had expected. The second she had not, and glancing around the found that she was sitting amongst a volatile mix of papers all about the size of her palm with various unrecognisable symbols written on them in a thick black script. The paper was only slightly darker than the floor and cast little to no shadow, making it difficult to discern one sheet of paper from the next, but the symbols were plain to read, and she assumed that that was all that mattered.

She picked up one of the sheets nearest to her and scrutinised it closely: ordinary printer paper and ink, the symbol taking up the entirety of the sheet without room for any explanation of what it might represent. And such a curious symbol it was - she might have called it a latter if not for the fact that it was unlike any letter she had ever seen, at least where human alphabets were concerned. In her younger years when her obsession with high fantasy reached its peak she had taken it upon herself to learn the writing of Elvish and picked up on all manner of strange letters, though the one she geld in her hand was not remotely similar to the flowing script of Elvish. This was more like Dwarish, blocky and uneven, but even then the letters surrounding her differentiated themselves by twisting themselves into points so sharp she felt she might cut herself on one of them.

Satisfied that she had learned all she could for the moment, she stood, brushing imaginary dust off of her skirt, and turned to survey the room. It was not unlike a prison or asylum cell in its sparsity, though rather lacking in cement flooring or padded walls. The only prominent feature was a small grey panel set into the wall, of the sort that one might find next to a locked door in a high-security establishment, though there was no door that she could see. Upon closer examination, she found that the panel bore a series of buttons marked with the same symbols - letters, she reminded herself - as those on the papers on the floor. There was obviously a connection between the two of them. Some sort of code that was meant to be broken, perhaps, and used to unlock whatever secrets the keypad might be hiding.

A crackle of static filled the room and a voice echoed out from an unknown source. "Test subject No. 612," it said. "I see you are awake."

"I am," Rose replied coldly. "Although I was unaware that I was participating in any sort of test."

"Your knowledge of the situation is irrelevant," the voice snapped. "Complete the tests presented to you. That is the only thing of importance in this scenario and those that will follow it."

"Only the tests?" Rose mused. "Surely as one of your subjects I must merit some importance."

"Subjects can be replaced, although we would prefer that it not come to that."

"How kind," Rose said dryly. "I'm flattered that you care so. I don't suppose you would mind telling me exactly what I am meant to be accomplishing, and why? And while you're at it, you might do me that favor of informing me of my whereabouts and your identity, since I don't appreciate being ordered about by strangers who won't even show their face."

"You assume I have a face to show. You are here because you possess brain functions that are above those of an ordinary human being. These tests will aid us in determining exactly what these functions entail. That is all the information I am permitted to give you at the moment."

"You really are too kind. Tell me, how long did it take for you to master the art of knowing how to say a great deal while simultaneously saying nothing at all?"

"Not long," the voice said smugly. "Good day, subject No. 612. I would wish you good luck, but then I might be accused of showing favoritism, and that simply wouldn't do."

"And what-" The intercom cut out before Rose could finish her question, but she had a feeling she knew what the answer would be anyways. In order for her captor - if that was the proper word - to show favoritism, there had to be other test subjects, though she may not know their names or their location. Perhaps she was only one in a whole line of people locked in blank white rooms and surrounded by nonsensical letters and secret codes, and while the thought itself was depressing, it gave her some small degree of comfort to know that she was not alone in her endeavors. She sighed and sat down again, wishing she had her coat with her. The room was neither cold nor warm, but it would have been nice to have something to wrap around herself while she worked. It would be like studying, with all of her notes spread out in front of her on the floor. She noticed that while she had been given paper, she had not been left with any sort of writing implement with which to document her findings. Apparently she would have to conduct the entire process mentally. Unfortunate, but not impossible if she was organized about it.

Her shoulder gave a sudden and unexpected throb and she grimaced, yanking up her sleeve to stare at the spot. A small rectangular shape made a faint outline beneath the surface of her skin, and around it were rough patches that hinted at scar tissue. She had been implanted with some sort of device, probably something to monitor her vital signs or track her position, though she could hardly see what use that would be if she was trapped in a single room.

She turned her thoughts back towards the test and llined the papers up in straight lines, noting similarities between the foreign letters and gathering up the identical ones into piles. There were eighteen in all, almost an entire alphabet. She was correct about the code, then - no doubt the symbols would spell out some sort of message that would allow her to access the control panel once they were placed in the correct order. Provided that she could determine the corresponding English letters, or course. The easiest starting point would be "E," the most commonly-used letter in the English language, followed shortly by "T," and she lay aside the two largest piles and made a mental note - it would appear that her studies of linguistics would be of use to her sooner than she had anticipated. However, if what she had discovered so far was anything to go by, the foreign letters bore no similarities to their English counterparts, making it impossible for her to determine what letter was what based on looks alone. She was already facing a wall simply by the fact that the next five letters in the alphabet were all equally common, and the remaining symbols were all in such small groups that it would be impossible to determine which was which. This puzzle was going to be a great deal more difficult than she had originally anticipated.

Unless, of course, she had been provided with some sort of clue.

On a hunch, Rose stood meandered over the the pad on the wall, squinting at the arrangement of symbols on the pad. To her delight, there were twenty-six buttons marked with letters and one which she assumed was for the submission of the code. The "E" and "T" buttons were in their correct locations, confirming her theory that the foreign letters corresponded to the English alphabet. It really was nothing more than a conscript, though she wasn't sure why she would ever have thought otherwise, and she returned to the center of the room and gathered up the remaining papers in her hands with a satisfied smirk. Let the mysterious voices be as cryptic as they would. Their tests were no match for her supposedly higher brain functions. To be sure, she still had to puzzle out the message, but that was nothing more than fussing about with anagrams. Tedious, but not as difficult as it could be. She wondered if they had underestimated her, or if they were making the first test intentionally easy just so that they could beat her back down again during the next round. She wouldn't be surprised if that was the case, but refused to let it get her down. After all, nobody had ever gotten anything done while running on pessimism.

The idea made her smile. Her philosophy professor could probably have given her a run for her money on that one.

She began matching up the letters and committing each one to memory, glad that she had been forced to work with flash cards for so many of those odious middle school months that she hardly dared to remember, when suddenly she stopped, listening intently.

There was a tapping coming from the other side of the wall.

Rose pressed her ear to the paneling, her fingers fidgeting nervously with the sheets of paper, and listened intently for a sign to assure her that she hadn't suddenly begun to hallucinate. She hadn't been alone for _that _long, but you never knew. After several seconds, the taps repeated themselves, slightly louder than before, and the noise was slightly startling. She jerked back and allowed her grip on the papers to relax as she stared at the noise's point of origin, the selfsame spot on the wall where she imagined her door would appear once she had succeeded in finding the correct code to operate the control panel. The voice had suggested the presence of other test subjects, but surely they would not be kept so close together, not when the tests were so seemingly individualised and everything so secretive. Or perhaps there was not an adjoining room at all, and the facility was simply poorly constructed. You never knew what walls were made of, after all, not until you'd knocked them down, which appeared to be the intent of her neighbor, though they were never going to get anywhere if they continued at the rate they were going.

She raised a tentative hand and waited for a break in the tapping, then replied with her own signal. Had she been familiar with morse code she would have utilised it, but settled instead for a childhood memory, using the secret knock she had devised for the use of all who wished to gain entry to the bedroom of her seven-year-old self.

Silence from the other end, though it was difficult to determine whether it was fearful or shocked. Perhaps a mix of both, the way Rose's silence had been. She knocked again, repeating the pattern and wondering if she might have accidentally scared the tapper off, though she could not imagine why they would flee. It wasn't as though she could harm them, after all. It was only noise. Suddenly there came a sharp flurry of sharp raps against the wall that escalated into a tumbling cacophony of crashes and then fell silent once more, though this time the silence felt more tantamount than before, as it so often does after a great noise. No matter how intently she listened, Rose could not hear a single sound from the other side of the wall, save for an occasional scraping that was so muted she barely heard it to begin with.

A minute passed.

There was a shuffling, and then the scraping noises increased in both length and volume until they produced a sound so piercing in volume that even the wall could not dampen it. It reminded Rose of the scraping of fork tines against a china plate, a noise which caused her teeth to go on edge whenever she heard it, though this was far more metallic. She wondered what her neighbor was doing and what sort of tools they had in their possession to allow them to produce such a racket. Certainly not a stack of papers, which were capable of producing nothing more than the occasional sad flutter and perhaps a paper cut or two if they were feeling particularly malevolent.

The scraping continued, fluxuating in volume so that the sound appeared to travel farther away from Rose's wall, perhaps towards the opposite end of the adjoining room, and then back again towards her until it shrilled in her ear with such a force that she was surprised the wall did not collapse from whatever torture it was being subjected to. There was a second crash, followed shortly by what sounded like an angry cry of frustration, and then a muffled banging. She waited several seconds, then decided to take a leap of faith and pressed her mouth up against the wall, where she said, as clearly as she could, "Hello?"

The banging stopped. She found this to be a promising sign, and repeated herself, slightly louder this time: "Hello?" To her chagrin, the only reply she received was another bout of unintelligible yelling. The only word she was able to make out was quite a rude one, providing she hadn't misheard, but judging by the tone of the speaker she doubted it could be anything else.

Rose sighed and dropped her attention from the wall, deciding that she would discover nothing of particular value if she attempted to continue her conversation, if one could call it that. Whoever was causing the noises was obviously more preoccupied with making themselves sound as obnoxious as possible than engaging in more civilised pursuits. She would focus on the task at hand, and once she had succeeded in opening the door, then she might see what was what.

_But what if_, he subconscious whispered snidely, _you open the door and someone attacks you? Judging from the sound of things, your neighbor doesn't seem like the sort who would take too kindly to visitors. _Rose swallowed and tried to ignore the thought, reminding herself that nobody ever got anything done while running on pessimism.

But the way things were progressing, it seemed like she was going to end up either running on pessimism, or not running at all.


End file.
